


Quarantine and Unexpected Recurrence

by onemechanicalalligator



Series: Jeff Winger is Bipolar [2]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Established Relationship, Friendship, Hospitalization, Husbands, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Canon, Quarantine, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemechanicalalligator/pseuds/onemechanicalalligator
Summary: Jeff is hospitalized again for bipolar disorder.Sequel to "Encouragement and Overdue Diagnosis", but you could probably read this on its own withouttoomuch confusion.
Relationships: Abed Nadir/Jeff Winger
Series: Jeff Winger is Bipolar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181192
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Quarantine and Unexpected Recurrence

**1**

Three years after his first hospitalization, Jeff finds himself heading downhill. 

It happens slowly and then quickly and then everything quietly explodes. Jeff doesn’t understand what’s happening until it’s all happening at once.

And this is always how it happens. Jeff isn’t self-aware like Abed is — he doesn’t know what’s wrong, and he doesn’t know what he needs. He doesn’t realize he’s falling into a mood episode until he’s in too deep, and then it feels like it’s come out of nowhere, even though the signs have been there for ages, and he can’t find a grip to claw his way back out.

They’re in the thick of the pandemic, and he and Abed have been self-quarantining for the past 8 months. They get their groceries delivered. They spend most of their time inside. Jeff teaches his classes online from home and leaves the house only to go to the pharmacy, or to go on a drive with Abed every once in a while just to get out of the house. It’s suffocating and it feels like it’s never going to end.

Despite that, he's been following his plan, going to his AA meetings via Zoom and attending therapy through telehealth. He’s taking his medication as he’s supposed to. Everything should be fine, and it _was_ fine, or at least he thought it was. 

Now things seem to be piling up in all directions and Jeff feels like he’s drowning, like it’s all too much. He’s sad and empty and afraid. He looks around the apartment and he _knows_ it’s his home, he _knows_ this is his stuff, but he doesn’t seem to recognize any of it. It all looks wrong, feels wrong, and it terrifies him, and he doesn’t say anything about it to Abed.

He doesn’t have to. Abed says something to _him_ one evening after dinner, when Jeff goes into their bedroom to lay down. It’s only 7pm.

“You aren’t okay, are you.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Abed says it kindly. He sits down on the bed next to Jeff and his emotional support dog, Feeny, who’s curled up next to him. Jeff is absently petting him, running his fingers over and over through his fur.

“I’m fine,” Jeff replies automatically. But he keeps his mouth shut after he says it, afraid of what other lies might come spilling out. He doesn’t know what he actually wants to say. What he _should_ say. What he wants, what he needs. He just. Doesn’t. Know.

“You’re not fine,” Abed says. “You haven’t been fine for awhile. I should have done something sooner, and I’m sorry I haven’t.” He looks devastated, staring down at his hands and picking at his fingernails. 

“Don’t do that, Abed,” begs Jeff, referring both to the self-blame and his bleeding cuticles. “It’s not your job to keep an eye on me.”

“You’re my _husband,”_ Abed argues. “Of course it’s my job to keep an eye on you. And I’m scared for you.”

“I’m just sad,” Jeff says, and even he can hear how hollow his voice sounds. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you really believe that?” Abed asks, frowning, and Jeff just shrugs. “Jeff,” Abed says, and he waits for Jeff to look at him. His face softens into worry. “Do you feel safe?”

Jeff tries to answer. He tries to say _yes_ or _of course_ or _don’t be silly, Abed._ Instead he says nothing. He thinks about how much everything _hurts,_ how much he wishes everything would just _stop._ He thinks about the secret part of his brain where he hides the bad thoughts, thoughts about hurting his body, breaking his skin, downing a bottle of something strong enough to burn his throat. 

He’s thinking about the bruises and scratches under his sleeves that he’s been trying to hide from Abed, and he wonders if Abed knows about them anyway.

“No,” he finally whispers.

“You need rest,” Abed says quietly. “You need more rest than I can give you, I think.”

Jeff stays perfectly still, staring at Abed, trying to make sense of the mess unraveling in his head. Finally, he nods.

“Why don’t we call your doctor,” Abed suggests gently. “Just to check in and see what he thinks about that. Okay?” He picks up Jeff’s phone and scrolls to the contact. He passes it wordlessly to him.

Jeff heads to their walk-in closet and shoves himself between a couple of dress shirts, the fabric on both sides making him feel more secure, less likely to chicken out. He leaves a hoarse, stilted, awkward message for the doctor, trying to be as clear as possible, but he can’t manage to say exactly what he means. He does his best, and then he mutters a goodbye and hangs up.

He walks out of the closet and into Abed’s waiting arms. Abed holds him and rocks him back and forth in silence for a few moments, then guides him back to the bed and sits them both down. He doesn’t say a word. Jeff is tired, _so tired._ Finally, he breaks the silence.

“What do you think he’ll say?” he asks.

Abed doesn’t get a chance to answer. Jeff’s phone rings. His doctor is on call tonight.

Jeff puts it on speaker so Abed can hear the whole conversation. He doesn’t think he could get through it otherwise, and he definitely won’t remember it after. So Abed hears the doctor ask Jeff a bunch of questions about how he’s feeling, and he hears Jeff’s hesitant answers. He hears Jeff stumble as he tries his best to tell the truth, to say things he needs to say but doesn’t want to. He hears Jeff get quieter and quieter as he gets more and more honest. 

Abed hears the doctor tell Jeff that he should go to the emergency room, and Jeff can’t pretend the conversation never happened. 

**2**

The last time he went through this, Jeff was agitated, angry, drunk, and out of control. He was in a mixed episode, mania buzzing beneath his depression, making him impulsive and reckless and volatile.

This time is different. It’s quieter. There’s no manic energy — there’s no energy at all. Jeff is so tired, and defeated, and empty. He doesn’t know how to keep from falling to pieces, and he walks with his arms wrapped around his torso as though that will help hold him together somehow.

Abed has been trying to talk to him for weeks, to find out what’s wrong, but Jeff doesn’t have an answer. He can’t articulate what it is he feels, what he needs. He’s tongue-tied and helpless. He’s broken and afraid. He wants to be honest with Abed, he really, really does — he just doesn’t know how. So instead he just tells him over and over that everything’s okay, and the crease between Abed’s brows gets deeper and deeper, and now here they are, preparing to go to the hospital.

Annie calls on FaceTime right after he hangs up with the doctor, and Jeff makes the mistake of answering. Her expression immediately shows concern, and Jeff knows what she’s seeing: his face, pale and unshaven, the huge bags under his eyes. He looks like a ghost. He feels like one.

“Jeff, are you okay?” Annie asks first thing. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Just a little tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

This is a complete lie. Jeff slept for 11 hours last night and then took a three-hour nap in the afternoon. 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, Annie.” He wants to snap at her but he doesn’t even have the energy for that, and it comes out sounding annoyed instead.

“Okay,” she says uncertainly, and then launches into telling him about her job. He relaxes and listens, lets her carry the conversation. When they finish talking she asks to speak to Abed, and Jeff hands over the phone. Then he gets back into bed and snuggles with the dog, who he knows won’t ask him questions he can’t answer, and stares at the wall until Abed brings his phone back.

“Annie’s worried about you,” Abed remarks. “I am too. I think we should leave soon.”

Things happen quickly after that. Jeff protests halfheartedly for a few minutes, but he can’t keep it up for very long. He gives up and follows Abed to the car.

**3**

Because of the virus, visitors and companions aren’t allowed in the hospital unless medically necessary. This means that Abed can’t accompany Jeff to the emergency room. He gets out of the car, though, while Jeff puts on his mask, and then they hug for a long time.

“It’s going to be okay,” Abed says. “This is the right thing to do. Text me for as long as you can, okay?”

Jeff nods. He can’t speak. If he does, he’ll cry, and if he cries, he won’t be able to force himself to go inside. He holds Abed even tighter, so tight that a part of him worries that Abed’s bones will just snap in half, and he doesn’t let go until Abed does first. 

The emergency room is quiet, and Jeff cringes when he has to tell the woman at the counter why he’s there. He mutters something about feeling unsafe, and his doctor telling him to come in, and then he has to repeat himself two more times because everything is muffled by the mask on his face and the plexiglass between them. Then he sits down and texts Abed until he’s called back.

When he is, they put him in a room that’s entirely empty except for two beds, and thankfully neither of them is occupied. They make Jeff change into a gown and grippy hospital socks, and wrap a bracelet around his wrist, and take all of his belongings. The nurse tries to take his phone, but when he tearfully asks if he can keep it, she gives in and returns it to him. 

He waits and texts Abed and waits some more, and he thinks it’s been hours, but he’s not keeping track of the time. A nurse offers to bring him a sandwich, but he’s not hungry. Someone comes by to take his vital signs, and someone else takes some blood. Eventually, a therapist comes in to talk to him. Jeff forces himself to be as honest as possible, picturing Abed’s face as he speaks. 

She asks about the dark bruises on his arms, and the angry red scratches. He tries to explain that he didn't mean to, that it just sort of happened. He didn't plan it. She asks if he's ever hurt himself before, and he wants to lie to her but he knows it's in a chart somewhere from the last time he was here. He stares down at his lap when he tells her, _yes._ He puts his arms behind his back. He can't stand to look at them. 

They move him to the Annex after that, the room where they’ll keep him until they can admit him to the Behavioral Health Center. He has to give up his phone, then, and once again he’s the only one in the room, and by now it’s the middle of the night, and eerily dark. They give him a bed in the corner, and there’s no television this time, and there are no reading materials, either, because of the virus, so Jeff stares at the ceiling.

He remembers the Annex from the last time he was here, but this time he’s not detoxing, not shouting or struggling or fighting with everyone. The whole thing feels a lot simpler, a lot quieter. 

It’s a long night, and Jeff doesn’t sleep much. At some point another therapist comes in to talk to him, and she asks the same questions as the first one, and digs deeper. She asks if he can think of anything that might be affecting his mood, and he says maybe the bipolar disorder, or maybe the being stuck in his house for the last eight months. She commiserates, then tells him he’ll be admitted in the morning. Jeff wants to tell Abed, but it’s the middle of the night and he doesn’t have his phone. He stares at the ceiling some more.

**4**

In the morning he does get access to a phone, and he calls Abed first thing. The conversation is short, but Abed sounds relieved to hear that Jeff will be admitted. He promises to bring over some clothes and things later in the day. Jeff breaks it to him that visiting hours are cancelled because of the pandemic, and Abed sounds disappointed, but not surprised. Jeff hopes Abed can’t tell that he’s trying not to cry, but thinks he probably can.

The nurses in the Annex aren’t his favorites, but Jeff remembers the staff in the Behavioral Health Center, remembers them being friendly and kind, and he’s glad to find that they still are. They get him settled into his own room with his own bathroom, and then they give him some time to himself. It’s Sunday, so he won’t see the doctor until tomorrow.

Jeff lays down on his back and looks at the room around him. Last time he was here, a nurse informed him that this building used to be a convent. A nun slept here, where Jeff is now. Jeff finds that to be a nice thought, even though he’s not really sure why. He wonders if he ever told Shirley about it, or Britta. He wonders if they know he’s here now. If Abed told them, or if he plans to. Last time was a crisis, and Jeff understands why Abed reached out to their friends. This time is different. There’s less drama. Fewer unknowns. Much less violence.

Sill, maybe Abed will tell Troy — no, Abed will definitely tell Troy, and that’s fine. But probably Troy won’t have to fly out to LA this time. Wouldn’t be able to even if he wanted, not with all the travel restrictions.

Jeff closes his eyes and enjoys the peace of the room. He thinks about the nun again, and wonders if he should try to pray. If there’s even anyone out there to listen. Or if he should do it as a gesture, maybe. He feels drawn to it in a way that he never has before.

“Dear God,” Jeff whispers awkwardly, remembering church with his mom when he was really young. “Please help me. Amen.”

He opens his eyes and lets out a breath. He’s not sure if he feels better. He guesses he doesn’t feel worse.

**5**

Jeff falls asleep for a while. He barely slept last night, and he’s exhausted. Then he gets up and does some stretches on his bed. He knows he could go out into the common area, but he doesn’t want to yet. He feels fragile and scared and he wants to wallow in it for a few more minutes.

He closes his eyes again and thinks of Abed. Of his good, quiet, caring husband who watches out for him, who loves him despite the numerous reasons that he really, really shouldn’t. Jeff thinks he doesn’t deserve someone like Abed, and Abed certainly deserves better than Jeff. His heart sinks a little and he feels tears begin to force themselves out of the outer corners of his eyes, sliding down into his ears. It’s uncomfortable, and he brushes at his ears with his hands.

He feels guilty. He has so many wonderful things in his life, and he feels like he should be more appreciative. Like he shouldn’t be depressed in the hospital when, global pandemic aside, nothing is actually wrong, and things are objectively good. He has a home. A job. A dog. Abed.

Somewhere deep in his mind, a voice reminds him that he’s sick. That bipolar disorder doesn’t care how his life is going. That this is an illness, it’s not Jeff’s fault.

This is a lesson he’s been trying to learn ever since his diagnosis. The lesson that an illness is not a character flaw, and the ups and downs are going to come even if Jeff takes his medication and does everything right. Even if he does exactly what he’s supposed to.

Abed has tried to instill this in him as well, and Jeff tries to look at Abed as an example. Abed puts all kinds of effort into managing the more difficult aspects of his autism. He does what he’s supposed to and he does his best. And he still has meltdowns, he still has bad days, and none of that is his fault. _That’s_ not a character flaw. That’s just how it is for Abed.

And this is just how it is for Jeff, and it’s how it’s always going to be, and this probably won’t be Jeff’s last hospitalization, and he’s just going to have to learn to deal with that.

It’s lonely. Even though Abed gets it in his own way, it’s still lonely being Like This and feeling Like This. Honestly, right now everything feels dark and faded and unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Depression isn’t new to Jeff, but it still greets him like a stranger every single time. It still feels fresh and painful and scary, like an unknown parasite infecting him from the inside out.

Jeff is exhausted. The fight feels neverending. It feels unfamiliar and yet it’s like it’s also always been there. Like a monster that’s been hiding in the closet, only now the closet door has disappeared and there’s nowhere for the monster to go, no way to contain it.

He wants to tell Abed, _I’m sorry_ . He wants to tell him, _I’m broken, I’m unfixable._ He won’t, because Abed won’t accept it. But he wants to.

He wants to apologize and set things right, and then he wants to disappear forever. He wants to die without having to kill himself. He wants to stop having these kinds of thoughts.

**6**

Jeff goes down to dinner and the food is terrible and all Jeff wants is to be back at home eating buttered noodles with Abed. The desire hits him so strongly he can feel it in his stomach, in his chest. In his heart.

After dinner Jeff calls Abed.

“I’m proud of you,” Abed says softly.

“You shouldn’t be,” Jeff replies.

“That’s not your call,” Abed says.

Jeff finds out that Abed did tell Troy, of course, but he wanted to check with Jeff before telling any of the others. He decides it’s fine. The group is family, after all. 

When they hang up, Jeff watches TV for a while before it’s time for bed. He watches part of a murder mystery show, the kind he would never watch at home, and finds it interesting enough. Then it’s snack time.

Somehow, last time he was here, Jeff “Scared of Carbs” Winger developed a taste for graham crackers with peanut butter and milk as a bedtime snack. It’s not something he would ever eat outside the walls of the hospital, but here it’s safe and he even enjoys it a little. The small familiarities are comforting.

Jeff’s belongings are lying on his bed when he goes to his room, the things that Abed dropped off earlier. Included with Jeff’s clothes is a cardigan of Abed’s, an oversized one that Jeff often borrows. He puts it on, appreciating the way it covers up the marks on his arms and the way it smells like Abed. He wears it every single day until he goes home.

**7**

The next morning is hectic. Jeff is woken up and sent to breakfast before he can get his bearings, and he feels fuzzy and tired and confused. It isn’t until he calls Abed after breakfast that he starts to feel even remotely like himself again.

Abed is kind and encouraging on the phone. He assures Jeff that everything is fine. He sends along Troy’s love, and get well wishes from Britta, Shirley, Annie, Frankie, and Craig. Jeff is surprised that Abed told so many people, and Abed assures him that he told Annie and Annie told everyone else. Except Britta — Abed did call Britta, because, as he says, “Britta is a therapist now and understands this kind of stuff.” Jeff asks if she’s been therapizing Abed again, but Abed says no — he and Britta have been talking like friends, and even though it’s (thankfully) not therapy, Abed finds it helpful.

Jeff is glad to know Abed has a support system while he’s away. He still worries about him, and he wants to know he’s not making things harder for him.

It’s a nice talk, and Abed lets Jeff know that he passed along the phone number so his friends can call him, and Jeff appreciates that. Abed also holds the phone up to Feeny, so he can say hi to Jeff, too. All Jeff can hear is some muffled panting, but it’s enough, and it’s comforting. Feeny is always comforting.

Soon after, the doctor meets with Jeff in his room. It’s a quick meeting, and Jeff feels uneasy knowing this doctor doesn’t know him at all, it’s not the same doctor he had last time he was here. It’s simpler than last time, though, because Jeff isn’t getting a whole diagnosis, and they have all of his notes from before. The doctor decides to make a change to Jeff’s meds, and Jeff is okay with that. He just wants to feel better.

**8**

There’s so much free time, and Jeff doesn’t know what to do with himself. He takes a nap, watches more TV. Chats with some of the other patients. He tries to meditate, although he’s not very successful.

Everyone at the hospital is nice to Jeff — all the staff and the patients and the doctors. But Jeff is embarrassed to be here, embarrassed of his depression. He feels ashamed of himself for getting to this point. For letting things get so out of control that he ended up here.

In some ways, it doesn’t even make any sense to Jeff. He doesn’t understand how this happened.

It’s scary the way things build up and add up, the way a little thing becomes a big thing and a small feeling becomes an unbearable one. Even scarier is the way it can sneak up on you, how you can be sleeping too much and crying too much and hurting yourself and still be convinced that everything is fine. The way you can’t let yourself believe anything is wrong until someone else points it out to you.

Jeff feels like his emotions are out of his control. He feels like he’s forgotten every coping skill he once had. He feels useless and helpless and pointless. He feels wobbly and untethered.

Most of all, Jeff feels empty and sad. He barely feels human.

The other patients make him feel more human and less alone. He meets people who take the same medications as him, who have the same diagnoses and demons and glazed expressions as him. And it’s not just him; he sees people who fidget like Troy, who rock back and forth like Abed. He even manages to bond with a patient who has dyslexia, just like him.

He remembers the best thing about being in the hospital: here, it’s okay not to be okay.

**9**

Jeff listens to a man talk himself in circles, then moves to the TV room where he watches part of a football game and a telenovela in Spanish. He doesn’t try to change the channel. He doesn’t care what he watches, he just wants something to drown out the nonsense in his head.

He sleeps a lot. He sleeps all night, then takes a nap after breakfast and another after lunch. At first he feels guilty, but then decides that maybe sleep is just what he needs right now. Maybe that’s okay. He tells himself not to feel guilty for needing rest. It’s hard, but he does his very best.

On the phone, Abed tells Jeff they used to send girls to convents if they thought they were crazy or broken, to help heal them. He tells Jeff that he’s in a place designed twice over for healing, and Jeff clings to that. The notion that he is where he needs to be.

Jeff tries to accept what’s happening — and what’s happened — and just move forward. It’s hard; he’s always been a pessimist, and he prides himself on that. Now he’s forced to let his guard down, to open himself up to the possibilities of change and hope.

The days bleed together. Britta calls one afternoon.

“Jeff Winger,” she says. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Jeff says, trying to find a comfortable way to sit next to the public phone in the hallway.

“Really? Because I’m calling you at the hospital. Is this like Troy and Abed’s fine/fyne thing?”

“No,” says Jeff. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not really fine but I don’t like saying it.”

“It’s okay not to be fine sometimes.” Britta is slipping into her therapist voice. “It’s okay to need some help.”

“I don’t like needing help,” Jeff blurts out, louder than he meant to. He lowers his voice. “I _give_ help. I teach and give Winger speeches and bring Abed his weighted blanket. I don’t like being the one on the receiving end.”

“I hate to say this,” Britta says. “But get used to it. You have this illness for life. You’re gonna have to let people help you sometimes. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

“I still have trouble believing that I have this illness at all,” Jeff admits. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, or it feels like I’m making it up, or exaggerating things. Or like I’ve accidentally managed to fool everyone.”

“That’s normal,” Britta says. “It really is. I hear it a lot. But...how much do you remember about the last time you were in the hospital?”

“Not much.” He’s surprised, actually, how few of the specifics he can recall.

“You were in bad shape. You scared Abed. You scared all of us. I promise you didn’t make that up. And I promise you didn’t make up whatever made Abed and your doctor think you needed extra help this time. If you can’t trust yourself, can you at least try to trust us? Trust Abed?”

Jeff nods, then remembers Britta can’t see him. “I’ll try,” he says.

“I love you, you know,” Britta says. “I’m glad you’re there, getting better. I just want you to be okay.”

“I love you too,” Jeff grumbles. “Thanks, Britta.”

**10**

Jeff is watching TV when another patient sits down next to him. She’s a girl, probably in her 20s, and he thinks her name is Evelyn. 

“Hi,” she says. “What are you here for?” 

Jeff thinks about his answer. The words don’t immediately spring to his mouth. He hates saying it. But he may as well practice.

“I’m bipolar,” he says. “And I got really sad. Depressed. So I came here.”

She nods. “Do you do drugs?”

Jeff shakes his head.

“That’s why I’m here,” Evelyn says. “Sometimes my brain works wrong and I try to fix it with drugs. It doesn’t work.”

“I used to drink a lot, for the same reason,” says Jeff.

“You stopped?” she asks, a surprised look on her face.

“Yeah.”

“So it’s possible,” she murmurs. “To stop.”

“It’s been three years since I had a drink,” Jeff says. “That was the last time I was here.”

“That’s really cool,” she says. “I’m glad you could stop.”

“I’m sure you can, too,” Jeff replies.

She looks thoughtful, and they go back to watching their show.

Jeff realizes that even at his most depressed, even up until the day he came to the hospital, his instinct was to keep up with his schedule of AA meetings. Not to blow them off and go get drunk. He wonders when that switch flipped, and for a brief moment, he lets himself feel proud.

**11**

Jeff notices that things are getting easier each day. He stops taking quite so many naps, stops feeling so terrified and breakable all the time. He thinks the change in medication is working, and probably the change in scenery, and having the chance to rest is helping, too. He’s not surprised that his doctor and Abed knew exactly what he needed, but he’s not bitter, either. He’s grateful.

Shirley calls him one afternoon, unexpectedly.

“Hello!” she says when Jeff takes the phone, and Jeff can hear the warmth in her voice.

“Hey, Shirley,” he says, trying to sound normal, only he can’t really remember what normal sounds like.

“How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“A little better each day, I think,” Jeff replies. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” she assures him. “Just take it one day at a time. You’ll get through this just fine.”

 _Thanks for your support,_ is what Jeff means to say.

“But what if I don’t?” is what he says instead. “Or what if I do and then it just...happens again?”

“Honey, I don’t know a whole lot about your condition, beyond what Abed’s explained to me,” Shirley admits. “But if it happens again, that doesn’t mean you’ve failed. There are going to be times in your life when you need a little extra help, that’s all.”

“I thought this was over,” Jeff whispers. “I thought once I started doing all the things I was supposed to, it would just kind of go away.”

“I’m sorry, Jeffrey,” Shirley says gently. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, and I wish I could take it away.”

“It’s okay,” Jeff says. “I didn’t mean to pile all of this on you.”

“Don’t you worry about that for a minute,” Shirley says. “Now, tell me, are you feeling better now than you were when you got there?”

“Yeah,” Jeff says.

“Good,” Shirley replies. “That’s progress. And I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Shirley,” Jeff says sincerely.

“You’re welcome, pumpkin,” she says. “Hang in there, okay? I’ll be praying for you.”

Jeff still doesn’t know much about prayer, but he swears he can feel Shirley’s love enveloping him one way or another.

**12**

It isn’t much longer before Jeff starts to panic, wondering when he’s going to get to go home. _If_ he’s ever going to get to go home. No one will give him a straight answer when he asks.

On the morning of his fourth day, he works himself up into a spiral, laying in bed, waiting to go down to breakfast. He starts picturing the conversation where the doctor tells him he can’t go home yet and Jeff argues with him, and the doctor makes him stay even longer, and it gets him all freaked out, and the only way to pull himself out of it is to picture Abed, imagine what Abed would say to him. 

_You’re getting yourself worked up, Jeff,_ he’d say. _You’re wasting your energy on nothing. Why don’t you wait to see what the doctor says first? You don’t need to react before he even tells you his decision._

 _But what if he does say not today?_ Jeff would ask.

 _Then you get through it,_ Abed would say. _It’s not ideal, but you can handle it. It’s just one day, in the grand scheme of things. Just one day. You can do it. It’s like when you’re running, right? Just one more mile. You’re way more than halfway there. Just one more little step._

 _What if I’m not better yet?_ Jeff might say.

 _The fact that you feel ready to go home shows that you’re at least better than you were when you got there. When you knew that’s where you needed to be._ Abed’s voice in his head is calm, rational. Jeff wonders why his own voice in his head isn’t like that.

He plays this conversation with Abed over and over every time he starts to freak out. It helps. He still dreads hearing what the doctor has to say.

His worry turns out to be for nothing, though. When the doctor calls him into his office, he greets him with, “Feel like going home today?” and it’s smooth sailing after that.

Jeff packs up his things and calls Abed to pick him up. He goes through discharge orders with a staff member and gets a list of his upcoming meetings and appointments, copies of his prescriptions. He says goodbye to Evelyn, and a couple of other people whose names he never learned. When Abed arrives, he’s ready.

They walk to the parking lot, and the second they get in the car they pull their masks off and Abed throws his arms around Jeff and kisses him deeply. It’s uncomfortable, stretched across the seats and the gear shift, but neither of them wants to let go, so they stay that way until Feeny, from the back seat, begins to nudge Jeff’s shoulder with his nose, and Jeff reaches back to pet him.

When they get home, Jeff steps through the front door to find that he recognizes his house, his living room, his possessions. Nothing looks scary or off-kilter the way it did when he left, and he feels steady on his feet.

“How are you feeling?” Abed asks, settling an arm around Jeff’s waist, squeezing it lightly.

“Good,” Jeff says. “Safe.” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Like myself,” he finally concludes.

“Cool,” Abed says. “Cool cool cool. Welcome home. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this by hand with a dull pencil and a crappy notebook when I was hospitalized this past November. I find it a lot easier to write about my feelings if I'm projecting them onto someone who isn't me, so that's what I did with Jeff. When I got home I typed it all up and then didn't look at it for 3 months, and now here we are.


End file.
